I don't smoke, and no one has ever smoked in this car. My nose says different," Riker countered, stepping back and unhooking his radio. "Hayes, run these plates. I'm calling in Sergeant Kesler. We've got a probable cause search." He looked back at Nia, his eyes cold and predatory.
"Step out of the vehicle, Miss Caldwell." Now, by the time Sergeant David Kesler arrived 15 minutes later in a heavy-duty Chevy Tahoe interceptor, the shoulder of I84 looked like a crime scene. Two cruisers had the McLaren boxed in, their strobes painting the trees in frantic bursts of neon. Nia sat quietly on the damp concrete of the highway barrier, her coat pulled tight against the biting Oregon night chill. She watched as Kesler, a 20-year veteran with a reputation for aggressive civil asset forfeiture, swaggered out of his vehicle. Kesler was the kind of cop who operated entirely in the gray areas of the law.
He had built his career on hunches that conveniently resulted in the seizure of millions of dollars in cash and property over the years, assets that frequently bypassed the courts, and went straight into the department's slush fund. Reiker met Kesler halfway. Nia couldn't hear their exact words over the rushing wind of passing semi-trucks, but she could read the body language. Reiker was pointing at her, then at the car, gesturing wildly. Kesler was nodding, his eyes locked onto the McLaren with the hungry gleam of a man looking at a winning lottery ticket.
They believed they had hooked a whale, a young black woman driving a hypercar in the middle of the night. In their prejudiced calculus, she couldn't possibly be a tech CEO. She had to be a highlevel mule for one of the West Coast syndicates moving drug money or crypto laundering hardware. Kesler approached Nia, stopping just a few feet away. Miss Caldwell, I'm Sergeant Kesler.
Officer Riker tells me he detected the odor of narcotics in your vehicle. Under the motor vehicle exception, that gives us the right to conduct a thorough search. I do not consent to any search of my vehicle, Nia said clearly. Her voice cutting through the ambient highway noise. There are no drugs in that car.
Officer Reiker is lying, and you are violating my Fourth Amendment rights. Kesler's smile was entirely devoid of warmth. Consent isn't required, sweetheart. Sit tight. The nightmare began.
Riker and Hayes donned black nitrile gloves and began tossing the interior. They started with the basics. They ripped Nia's purse apart, dumping her wallet, her makeup, and her house keys onto the driver's seat. They pulled the floor mats out and threw them onto the wet gravel. They opened the glove box, scattering manuals and service records.
When the initial sweep yielded nothing but a pack of gum and a charging cable, Kesler's patience evaporated. He marched over to his Tahoe and popped the rear hatch. When he returned, he wasn't holding a flashlight. He was holding a steel pry bar and a set of heavy-duty mechanic screwdrivers. Nia's heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to remain seated.
"Sergeant," she called out, her voice dangerously calm. If you take tools to that car, you are going to be liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages. I strongly advise you to stop. Kesler ignored her. He walked to the passenger side door.
Couriers use aftermarket voids, he grunted to Riker. Behind the door panels under the center console, start popping the trim. Nia watched in surreal horror as Reiker jammed the flathead screwdriver into the seam of the bespoke leather door panel. With a sickening crack, the fragile carbon fiber clips snapped. Riker wrenched the panel backward, tearing the delicate wiring of the ambient lighting system.
He tossed the ruined panel onto the shoulder. They moved like vandals disguised in badges. Hayes, looking visibly nervous, but unwilling to stop his superiors, began ripping up the custom Alcantara carpeting in the footwells. Kesler took the pry bar to the center console, applying violent leverage until the sleek digital infotainment screen spiderwebbed with cracks and the housing ripped free from the dashboard, exposing a tangled nest of copper wires. "Nothing in the dash, Sarge," Riker panted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold air.
They had been tearing through the vehicle for 45 minutes, checking compartments, pulling panels, and ripping apart anything that might conceal contraband. The interior of the McLaren, once a masterpiece of automotive art, now looked like it had been through a shredder. Leather panels hung loose, wires spilled from beneath the dashboard, and expensive trim had been torn away and tossed across the seats and floor. Kesler stood beside the wreckage, his face flushed with frustration and adrenaline. He was in too deep now.
He had personally authorized the destruction of a vehicle worth more than his house. And there was no easy way to explain it if the search came up empty. If they didn't find contraband, the internal affairs fallout would be catastrophic. He needed to find something. He had to find something.
Check the frunk, Kesler barked, pointing to the front trunk. Pull the liner out. Tap the chassis. Listen for hollow spots. They hide the cash in vacuum-sealed lead boxes to beat the dogs, tear it all out.
Reiker popped the front hood. He threw Nia's overnight bag onto the ground, unzipping it and scattering her clothes across the dirt. Then he grabbed the edges of the carpeted trunk liner and pulled with all his strength. The retaining bolts shrieked as they sheared off, and the entire fiberglass tub lifted upward, exposing the naked aluminum chassis and the front suspension components. Riker leaned in, tapping a heavy metal flashlight against the framework.
Clink, clink, clink, thud. He stopped. He tapped it again. Thud. It was a dense, hollow sound, completely out of rhythm with the rest of the metal.
Reiker's eyes went wide. "Sarge," he yelled, his voice cracking with desperate excitement. I got something. Passenger side deep in the firewall recess. There's a bolted steel plate.